How to Rekindle an Acquaintance.

If you ever feel the need to, I dunno, get in contact with an ex from eons ago, and it ended badly, and you're not sure what to write, here's a tip--don't write this (or anything similar to this):

Hey [steenks],
How goes?
Have you had any news of [name of friend you have not spoken to in 10 years]? There was a weird bout last year, we were talking on the phone and she got upset with me for criticizing US politics (?) and I've never really heard back from her. Did she go wierd or something? I miss her. If you ever get around to talking with her, let her know... life's good. and if she ever wants to say hey, she knows where to reach me.
Hope all's good with you. Where you calling home these days?

[name of ex that will never be named.]

There are a myriad of things wrong about this email (and not just misspelling the word "weird"). But here's a general rule: when shit goes belly up, and in a bad Titanic kinda way in relationships, you make a deal that implies "Let's just ignore that any of this happened and we will never contact each other and in retrospect, I will hide myself in a closet and drink booze alone while reflecting upon our time together even 10 years later." AND if you plan on breaking that rule, you better bring your A-Game. And sending an email that is about another person, political strife, and what sounds like bitterness towards another is not your A-Game, but more like hard evidence of a lobotomy that happened during the past 10 years of mutual silence.

WTH Wednesday: I Don't Have an Umbrella Big Enough for Fat Joe.

Oh Fat Joe. I have nothing but love for you. I leaned back with the Terror Squad. I got it poppin'. And I felt that we thugged together pretty righteously. But Joey Crack, we need to sit down, put the champagne away, and have a heart to heart on what the hell it means when you want to make it rain on 'em hoes.

There I was, at my local Ralphs, picking out green beans, when this came blaring over the speakers:

Yeah I'm in this business of terror
Got a handful of stacks, better grab an umbrella
I make it rain, (I make it rain)
I'm in this business of terror
Got a handful of stacks, better grab an umbrella
I make it rain, (I make it rain)
I make it rain on them hoes I make it rain,(I make it rain)
I make it rain on them hoes I make it rain,(I make it rain)
I make it rain on them hoes I make it rain(I make it rain)
I make it rain on them hoes...

First of all, if you are Fat Joe, what exactly constitutes as "business of terror"? I think you're off the streets, and if you're hanging with a guy who goes by the name of Lil Wayne and you totally did a cameo in JLo's music video like 20 bazillion years ago, the only business that you could possibly terrorize is at Hermès where they apparently are still quite prejudiced against the non-French (ask Oprah).

And secondly, if you have a handful of stacks of money and were about to throw it at me, wouldn't it be more considerate to tell me to grab the nearest receptacle instead of an umbrella so I could share in your wealth? Or are you under the impression that I'm as rich as you, Fat Joe? In which case, no, I'm not, and I'll take whatever cash that is making it difficult for you to hoof it up and down a stage.

Finally, if you are giving gobs and gobs of cash to hoes, I don't know if I'd be telling the world about that. You're pretty much letting everyone know that you have to pay women to sleep with you, and if that's really the case--though I doubt it because according to a recent poll, women will happily trade in extra poundage if it comes with an equally fat bank account--but if that really is the case, you best keep that bit of knowledge locked up and the key thrown away.

Fat Joe, I tell you these things out of the deepest respect. You're a somewhat talented guy, you seem quite nice aside from the 50 Cent debacle (hell, you did a collaboration with Ja Rule. Ja fucking Rule. AFTER his stupid Grease-themed music video. I think that qualifies as beyond nice. That's pitiful nice), and you even overcame your fear of flying. So: if the rumors are true about you having ghostwriters who write all your lyrics, then you need to fire them immediately.

PS. I was going to dedicate this week to Nelly Furtado, but someone told me that dissing Canadians twice in a row for poor lyric writing would make it seem like I have a grudge against Canadians. I don't (although if your name is Kristin and you happen to be related to me and live in Canada, then I've hated you since the 3rd grade when you ran off with little Billy Carmichael which only a hoe would do. A hoe, like the kind Fat Joe and his ghostwriters would have made rain on 'em).

What The Hell Wednesdays: Hump Day Stumper.

We listen to a lot of music for our job ("They tried to make me go to rehab/But I said Nooo noooo nooooo!"); and we also listen to a lot of music not for our job (like when Crash calls and grumps, "I'm having a bad day. Will you please turn up the speakers to your stereo and sing 'Jenny from the Block' for me? It would make my day.") In short, we are surrounded by all kinds of music from A to Z, from shithouse to stupendous, from the windows to the wall. And that means that we sometimes find ourselves singing the weirdest fucking lyrics ever written, and then when finally someone asks us, "What the hell did you just say?!", we snap back into our normal selves, with our God-given IQs, and try to blame the whole incident on a bottle of qualuudes that just happen to be in the top drawer of our desk at work.

In honor of such incidents, we'll give out an award every Wednesday to the lyrics that have tiptoed slyly into our subconscious. This week, I'd like to spotlight: Robin Thicke "Lost Without U."

There are a few things that I can look over. For example: people who use "U" instead of "you." (Pussycat Dolls, wtf is up with "Stickwitu" as a song title, much less a song?) And I can also look over the fact that Robin's dad was the dad on Growing Pains because he really can't help that fact. I can EVEN look over the fact that prior to his recording career, he penned songs for such fallen heroes like Jordan McKnight's vain attempt at a comeback album. But here's the offense that will continue to puzzle:

"Baby you're the perfect shape
Baby you're the perfect weight
Treat me like my birthday
I want it this way; I want it that way; I want it
Tell me u dont want me 2 stop (Dont stop!)
Tell me it would break your heart
That u love me and all my dirty
U wanna roll with me; u wanna hold with me
U wanna make fires, and get Norwegian wood with me"

WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH NORWEGIAN WOOD?!
At first I thought to myself, "hmm, maybe Robin's Norwegian! and this is a thinly veiled metaphor to his manhood." But upon further research (thanks wikipedia), HE'S CANADIAN. So that ruled out argument 1. Argument 2 was that Norwegian wood is highly flammable and would make excellent kindling like hairspray, a bottle of brandy, and my 8th grade polyster gym uniform. But apparently Norweigan wood is just as special as the wood you pick up at your local Vons. Argument 3? Robin Thicke was drunk and trolling the streets of Larchmont when he spied through the window of a travel agency a poster of Norway and he thought to himself, "Ah HA! Norwegian wood!"

And then, a truly shit lyric was born.

Next week: Nelly Furtado and her ill-advised Steve Nash shout out in "Promiscuous." Not only was it the most awkard lyric of all in 2006, but it went on to spawn rumors of infidelity! Shame on you Nelly Furtado!